


how it was the gentlest of guttings

by smallredboy



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, M/M, Medicinal Drug Use, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Stabbing, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter, medical inaccuracies probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27530944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/smallredboy
Summary: Will snaps and stabs Hannibal. Hannibal makes sure the knife goes deeper in.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 10
Kudos: 85
Collections: Froday Flash Fiction Little & Monthly Specials 2020, Hannibal Bingo





	how it was the gentlest of guttings

**Author's Note:**

> **fffc's 100th special:** high  
>  **hannibal bingo:** bandage
> 
> this was sitting on my 4thewords account for ages but i'm publishing it now!
> 
> enjoy!

Will's anger is still a flaming sword, of some sort of righteous holiness. He still feels like he deserves revenge, even if he hasn't made this known to Hannibal— he forgives him, yes, going through the pains of surviving the fall and living together will do that to him— but he still holds rancor. After all, who would _not_ hold rancor for such a man? A man who ruined his life, so willingly, so happily? But his ruined life is better than the one he used to have. He knows that much.

Still, when his anger flares up, he forgets to think, to act right. 

Hannibal smiles at him, makes an offhand comment about their past, about his gaslighting and medical abuse, and before Will realizes what's come over himself he's grabbing the kitchen knife he was using to chop vegetables and sinking it into Hannibal's stomach, in what he planned to be a quick stab, heat of the moment. In and out.

Hannibal lets out a small gasp, eyes wide as he looks down at him. And then, against all of Will's expectations, he grabs him by the wrist, even as he shakes.

"Hannibal," he breathes out.

"Will," he says. "Come on. Deeper. I'll be— I'll be fine."

Will struggles to pull away, to pull the knife out, but Hannibal's grip on his wrist is strong, making him unable to pull away. With a resigned sigh (that is not all that resigned; he's spent so long fantasizing about something like this), he pushes the knife in deeper. Hannibal gasps, tilts his head back as he's pressed against one of the counters.

Will feels hot blood against his fingers. Hannibal guides him with shaking fingers, showing him the way of how to carve into his stomach, in what is, no doubt, a mimicry of Will's own scar, that smile he left him with years ago.

"Why are you—"

"Let me," Hannibal says, smiling at him even as great gouts of blood leave his stomach. "Afterward, afterward you need to... to stitch me up, but what matters the most is stopping the blood flow. Pressure and towels will do well. When I wake up, administer some morphine for the pain. I have... I have some at my desk."

"Why are you letting me do this?" Will asks again, even as he makes a mental note of following Hannibal's instructions. He's a trained surgeon, after all, he knows what he's talking about. He's kind of scared that he's fucking up somehow, that he's going in too deep, that he won't be able to stop the bleeding. That Hannibal will die by his hand simply because he wanted him to; because he held his wrist against him and made him gut him. He doesn't understand why. Does he think he wants to? 

Well, he'd be right. But he's not admitting that much.

"Because you want to," Hannibal replies. "I know you want to." There's a certain affection in his eyes, in his sight, as he looks at him, eyes glinting with a love no other man has ever held for anyone else. As Will sinks the blade into his stomach ever so gently, he knows like nothing else that no greater love has ever existed between anyone else. He leans in closer, sinks his fingers into Hannibal's hair, holding him up like Hannibal did once upon a time.

He thinks of the river of blood, the stag dying next to him. Abigail dying next to him. All anger and surprise at Hannibal letting him do this leaves him, exits his body with ease. Of course he's letting him do this. He understands what he needs to do, what he needs to do to truly heal— he tried to do this once, in Florence, and he was denied the right to a reckoning. And now Hannibal is handing it to him.

Hannibal breathes airily against him, eyes lidded. "I love you, Will."

As Will pulls the blade out of his stomach, he says, "I love you, too."

* * *

The next few minutes are filled with terror and anxiety as Will fears that, somehow, everything will go wrong and that Hannibal will die. He wanted a reckoning, yes, and he's certainly had it now, giving Hannibal his own smile, but that doesn't mean he wants Hannibal to perish. He's never wanted him to, as much as he held hate for him during some periods of their tumultuous relationship.

He manages to stop the bleeding, and starts bandaging him, having a vial full of morphine close by, ready to administer it by when Hannibal wakes up.

When he wakes up, Hannibal's eyes shoot open and he gasps softly, squirms against his hold. 

"Oh God—" he breathes out.

"I'm here," Will says. He administers the morphine, injecting it into Hannibal's arm vein, and when he seems to relax, Will starts to talk. Because, God, it was such a dumb choice for Hannibal to make, and he did. "What on Earth were you thinking?" he asks as he bandages him, pressing it against his stomach, all of it covered in the white material. "You know I'm not a trained physician like you, I could've easily killed you without meaning to, even if you were guiding me— you're so fucking stupid, how on Earth do you get the idea to let me stab you?"

As he says this, though, he looks at the bandages longingly, knowing that eventually a scar like his own will be there in their place. He looks up at Hannibal and sees a smile on his lips, all tender, all loving. "What?" he snaps, gently.

"I love you," he says. "You're... you're beautiful. I am so glad I let you gut me like I once gutted you. Now we are matching, conjoined, in a way we weren't before..."

Will rolls his eyes, but there is a hold of affection in the expression. He huffs and keeps touching the bandages, looks up at him, checks to see if the morphine is working. "Does it hurt?"

"Not really." Hannibal tilts his head, grins at him. "I love you, Will. You are the most gorgeous man I have ever set my eyes upon. I am so glad we're here now, together, that we do not have to worry about anything else but each other. You are lovely, you are the ubermensch, you are holy and sacred and I love you so—"

Will lets out a long suffering sigh and leans in to kiss him. "I understand, Hannibal. You should go back to sleep."

"But I want to tell you how much I love you," he says. "You're wonderful. A god upon this Earth. I wish you could see just how incredible you are."

He sighs. He doesn't quite mind Hannibal raining praise upon him as he takes care of him, but it is deeply embarrassing. He keeps himself at his side, watches him, tries to deal with the anxiety of something going terribly wrong, somehow, even though he has gone through the first fear just fine, the worst part just fine.

As the hours pass, he changes the bandages, and Hannibal shifts between sleep and being awake. Whenever he's awake he rambles, loosens his tongue in a way Will has never seen before. It's endearing, what some heavy painkillers can do to this so reserved man, how he'll go on and on about how much he loves him, how he's so glad to have met him. When enough time has passed, Will pulls the bandages out and works through the motions of stitching the wound closed; he's not a medical professional by any means, and with every movement he fears that everything will go wrong and that he'll stitch it wrong, that Hannibal will feel pain in this area of his stomach for the rest of his days.

Some part of him thinks that it'd be great if he did feel pain in that area of his stomach for the rest of his days. Karma and vengeance or something of the sort. That's the primal part of his brain, still working on that anger that renews itself every time he remembers the wounds, every time he undresses and sees the scar across his stomach. But the part of his brain in love with Hannibal feels like he wants to give him his own personal Eden.

He wants revenge, karma, and he wants Hannibal to be in the Garden, forever, their very own manner of love along the trail, other people dying across the fields. He wants Hannibal to suffer and he wants Hannibal to be happy. It's a paradox, the way the trauma and the love mix together in his brain, blurring the lines between love and hate, revenge and making love.

It takes a while, but the wound turns into a scar over time. While dealing with it, Will takes care of Hannibal, making their meals himself most of the time— he listens closely to Hannibal's instructions, and brings him chicken soup once, as a little in-joke about that time so long ago.

When everything is done with, Hannibal is able to go around their cabin once again. He looks down at his scar, the crude smile around his stomach, that scar that looks so similar to Will's.

"We're mirrors of each other," Hannibal tells him, kissing him.

Will smiles against his lips, looks up at him. "We're missing a few things for that. I've got to shoot you to really make us mirror each other."

Hannibal's laugh is crystal clear, addictive with the way it rings through his ears. Will just wants to spend the rest of his life listening to his laugh. "I'd let you," he says.

He rolls his eyes. "Of course you would."

As they kiss once again, Will finds peace in himself he hasn't felt in a long time, fingers pressed against Hannibal's scar.


End file.
